


You Need to Lower Your Standards (Cause It's Never Getting Any Better Than This)

by jbird181



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anger, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Cuddling, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, alcohol use, one of these things is not like the other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 04:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbird181/pseuds/jbird181
Summary: Kavinsky likes to play rough with his toys, seeing how hard he can push and how high he can drop them from before they break, but the problem with getting them secondhand is that—all too often—they come pre-broken, with cracks Kavinsky can’t see until he twists too hard or releases them from too high up and they lay shattered on the ground.





	You Need to Lower Your Standards (Cause It's Never Getting Any Better Than This)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Fall Out Boy's [Rat A Tat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5dAIHt99o8).

This is new territory: Proko’s crying.

He's trying to hide it, swiping at his eyes, but Kavinsky can see the fat droplets trailing down his cheeks when he blinks. He’s crying, and Kavinsky is at a loss.

He's said worse in the past, and the cute little fucker even got off on it, so Kavinsky has no reason to feel guilty because he didn't do anything wrong.

If you want to point fingers, it's really Lynch's fault. He had to go and be a douchebag, keeling over and running back to his master, so Kavinsky’d started with an abandoned bottle and went on to cultivate a mountain of glass and anything else he could smash against the wall. Proko had come in and tried to stop him, to wrench the lamp out of his hands and Kavinsky had screamed at him to _leave him alone_ , that _he didn't fucking need Proko_ , that _he needed to get a life_.

And Proko’d just stood there, frozen, and started crying.

“Stop being such a baby,” Kavinsky muttered.

Proko didn't stop, if anything, he started crying harder, wrapped his skinny arms pitifully around himself, choked out, “Stop being such an asshole.”

Kavinsky has no idea what to do. He likes to play rough with his toys, seeing how hard he can push and how high he can drop them from before they break, but the problem with getting them secondhand is that—all too often—they come pre-broken, with cracks Kavinsky can’t see until he twists too hard or releases them from too high up and they lay shattered on the ground.

He's plenty good at satisfying Proko’s other needs: bodily, substance, physical, but this is out of K’s pay grade, and it's really fucking uncomfortable.

“What's wrong with you?” Kavinsky snaps, but the words are declawed in his confusion.

“I'm fine.” Proko turns to leave, and something lurches in Kavinsky’s chest.

“Cut the bullshit.” Proko sniffs and turns his head to look at K, but he doesn't return. His eyes are red above a stubbornly clenched jaw. “Jesus Christ, get over here, loser.” Kavinsky spreads his arms in an invitation—a mocking invitation, but an invitation none-the-less—and Proko accepts, grabbing fistfuls of K’s shirt and burying his face in his chest, openly sobbing now.

It feels strange to be holding him like this. His parents certainly never did it for him. He learned quickly to comfort himself, to dull the pain through whatever means he could find. It feels like there's a pit in Kavinsky’s brain that any understanding of Proko keeps falling into. Didn't anyone ever teach him that pain is weakness, emotion is weakness, so you better learn quick to burn them until they’re nothing but ash you can easily blow away, until you do it unconsciously, feeling nothing but the high.

Kavinsky awkwardly rubs Proko’s back, feeling very out-of-place, but Proko seems to like it and buries himself deeper into K’s chest. (He likes how small Proko is, how his head fits neatly under Kavinsky’s chin, how he can easily shove him up against walls or onto counters, when the mood strikes him. He might be mistaken for delicate if not for the deliciously dirty mouth on him.)

Eventually, Proko calms, and Kavinsky pushes him off to inspect his tank top with distaste. “You fucked up my shirt.” It’s soaked through in spots with snot and tears, and he grimaces before discarding it haphazardly.

“It was all part of my master plan to get you shirtless,” Proko shoots back, pushing assorted bottles and other shit off Kavinsky’s bed so he can make himself comfortable against the headboard. The top sheet went missing a while ago, and Kavinsky never bothered to replace it. He doesn't sleep there often, when he sleeps at all. Proko wraps his arms around his knees and sets his chin on them, watching Kavinsky as he paces around the room, kicking whatever’s left intact in an attempt to blow off steam.

A half-empty water bottle rolls into the wall and pops open with a particularly vicious kick, dribbling its contents into the wood floor. Kavinsky swears loudly and picks it up. He almost tries to crush it in his fist, but after a sniff, settles for downing the liquid instead. When he’s done, he releases it in favor of rooting through his pockets for pills, but comes up empty.

He tries his nightstand next and is rewarded with a handful of neon green dream pills. Kavinsky pops two, frowning at the fruity taste, then offers another to Proko, who bites his lip in consideration. “It’s green apple,” says Kavinsky, fully aware it’s Proko’s favorite flavor. He’d eat green apple pizza if you offered it to him. Indeed, Proko acquises and opens his mouth so Kavinsky can place the pill on his tongue.

“Good boy,” he murmurs as Proko swallows, enjoying how he flushes at the praise. Already the drug is winding its way through his system, a relaxant he dreamed up after one too many nightmares, and he plops next to Proko on the bed and stretches out, tugging at him until he lays down next to K.

A strange side-effect of the drug now coursing through his system is the aching need for touch, so he props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to stroke Proko’s hair. Proko lets out a small sigh, and K’s hand tightens in his hair on muscle memory alone, but then Proko curls up facing away from him, and Kavinsky starts to feel annoyed.

He was perfectly willing to ignore the sobfest Proko’d had, and just move onto more enjoyable things, but apparently, Proko wanted to jump off that train before it even left the station. “I’m still upset with you,” Proko clarified, as if his body language didn’t make that clear.

“Why?” grumbles Kavinsky, still in an awkward pose halfway between lying down and sitting.

“Because you're a selfish ass,” Proko says to the wall.

“You're making me blush,” Kavinsky coos, which is a selfish and asshole-ish answer, coincidentally the only kind in his arsenal of comebacks.

Really, he doesn't know what Proko wants from him. An apology? An expression of undying love? Kavinsky only speaks the language of violence and fast cars and half-truths.

“Come here,” he orders, and Proko complies despite himself, rolling over into his back where Kavinsky pins him. K takes his time kissing him: claiming him. As Kavinsky bites down on his bottom lip, Proko lets out a deep sigh, and reaches up to wrap his arms around Kavinsky’s torso, his fingernails drawing little half moons on his sides.

When Kavinsky sits back on his knees, straddling Proko’s hips, his hair is disheveled from Proko’s fingers and his dark eyes are almost all pupils. He cups Proko’s face reverently, smooths his thumbs over the blush in his cheeks, and makes sure Proko is listening to his next words.

“You better not fucking leave,” Kavinsky whispers. It's a threat, and a promise, and the closest to an apology Proko’s ever going to get.

He nods. “Say it,” orders Kavinsky.

“I'm yours.”

“Good.” He punctuates the word with an all-consuming kiss, biting Proko’s lip for good measure before he pulls away.

Kavinsky lays down again and this time Proko rests his head on K’s chest.

Kavinsky thinks this is as good as it’s ever gonna get.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](https://jbird181.tumblr.com) if you want to request something or just to chat about The Raven Cycle.


End file.
